The Flowers Are Dying

My life is a collection of unfinished/poorly told stories. Literally and figuratively.

Writing

My earliest memories are mostly involving literature. Reading my mother’s copy of Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o’s Petals of Blood as a 7-year-old, my father coming home with a stack of new novels for me every weekend, writing silly fanfics of Sandy the Sandfish behind my verbal reasoning book, my brother teasing me and saying that I couldn’t possibly have finished Americanah in 2 days, these are my earliest memories. Many years later and I feel like a fraud. I fear that the next time I tell someone that I am a writer, they would ask me the meaning of the word vapid and when I stutter, they would snicker. So I only say I am a writer on my Twitter bio. There are currently 12 unfinished stories in my draft. Stories that I started telling but forgot to finish or I do not love anymore. And nothing in the world makes me sadder than this. I base my whole personality on being a writer. In my head at least. So when I get an answer wrong in an anatomy class, I whisper these words as consolation to myself “They don’t know I’m a writer”.

Love

If you had seen me roughly a month ago and asked if I was in love, I would have answered affirmatively. This is funny because I wasn’t really in love. I don’t think I have actually ever been in love. I just liked the concept of this person. I liked the way they seemed shy all the time but managed to do things that said otherwise and the way they rolled up their sleeves, my god! Intimacy startles me. Maybe because I have spent most of my life believing that I wasn’t enough. So when anyone tries to be intimate with me(nonsexually) I spend all the time looking for the catch. This is a pretty shitty way to live. The other day, I told someone I was decentering romantic relationships from my life. I might have been lying.

//TW: Suicide

Depression

On the day of my physiology exams, I thought of offing myself. I always think of this. I just have not recently had a motivating factor. That day I was burnt out, I had barely slept all week. Anyways, I survived it. I survived the whole exam period without downing a bottle of bleach. Sometimes I just feel random waves of anxiety at having to stay alive. I mean, there is just so much misfortune out there waiting to happen to me. Most times I say a plea to the being whose credibility I have been sceptical about. God, abeg.

Miscellaneous

*“You owe your dreams your courage.” — Koleka Putuma

• I would really love to hear from you. Send me your work, your incomplete stuff, your best stuff. Anything. I would also be glad to share your favourite music/books with you. Send them all to my email. http://letterstotosin@gmail.com